Just when I thought I'd made some progress with Jo, Denny called. I played my part, driving to intercept Mickey like the goddamn Calvary.
Remember when we used to spar?he'd asked, putting up his fists to protect his face, hunching his shoulders.
I laughed it off, hoping to dissuade him. But when he's in that state, Mickey won't be dissuaded. And he turns mean. Sparring in high school is nothing compared to what Mickey does when he's whiskey soaked.
Of all things, right in the middle of the fight with Mickey, I thought of Jo. And then I got clocked in the face because I lost my focus.
Jo comes out of the trailer when I pull up. She stands right outside the door, arms folded, and stares at me. Her ripped jeans mold to her curves, and dirt covers the lower corner of her white T-shirt, like she wiped her hand on it.
An apology is in order, not that I needed to see Jo's obvious anger to know that. The first thing I say when I'm close enough is "I'm—"
"Save it," she orders. "You're lucky I didn't call the sheriff."
I know better than to ask her why she didn't, but I'm curious. It would get me out of her hair, and she seems like she wouldn't mind having me gone.
She comes closer. Stops a few feet from me. Her eyes are bright and sharp, a blue I've only ever seen in an Arizona sky before a heavy rain. "What happened to your face?"
I swallow. For what is probably the first time in my life, I feel guilty lying. "Bar fight."
"Typical."
Ouch. I knew it was coming, and still it stings. "I'm sorry." I wish I could tell her why I was gone, explain about Mickey and Sara.
"I told you to save it."
Indignation swells in my chest. I know it wasn't cool that I didn't show, and I wish I could've come up with a more altruistic reason, but that doesn't mean I'm going to be Jo's punching bag. Maybe we just need a little space to cool off.
"What do you need me to do?"
Jo inclines her head toward the house. "Knock down the wall between the formal dining room and the living room. The last thing I need is a formal dining room."
I go inside, making certain I avoid the rickety stair and sallow section of the porch floor, to see what she's talking about and figure out which tools I'm going to need. The rooms are tall, the ceilings vaulted, and I'm going to need a ladder, which I don't have because I didn't anticipate needing one today. It would be nice if there were more people working on this job than just me and Jo. I'm not sure what her endgame is, because nothing much is going to get accomplished if she doesn't have the right people.
I go find Jo in the trailer. Her back is to me, but her laptop is open. She's on another camp's website, scrolling through a list of activities. "Are you ever planning on hiring more labor?" It comes out harsher than I intend.
Jo turns around. She has a pencil shoved through hair that's knotted on top of her head, bringing to mind sexy librarian fantasies where she removes the pencil and her hair comes swirling down. The expression on her face kills that idea in its tracks.
"You can leave anytime you like. I know how you shy away from hard work."
What the fuck? A few days ago it seemed like we were edging back toward friend territory, and now she's insulting me?
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You said it yourself. Wes is running that ranch without help."
"Because I'm here, helping you, in case you haven't noticed."
"And if you weren't here, you'd be where? At the HCC?" She laughs and shakes her head. "Sell your lies elsewhere. Maybe to Sara Schultz."
My teeth grind together. Of course she thinks what everyone else in this town thinks. For the most part, I don't care, but knowing Jo shares the assumption upsets me. And it's showing in my tone and volume. "You don't know a damn thing."
Jo's entire body is rigid, but her eyes don't match. There's something in them I can't decipher, but I'm certain it's not anger.
I wipe my forehead on my sleeve. It's really fucking hot in this trailer. "I know you need the help, and I need the community service hours. But I'm not a plumber or an electrician, and I don't have ten arms. So start thinking about adding to this crew of two." I gesture back and forth between us. "Or your dream of opening the ranch will do what a majority of dreams do: die."
I push open the flimsy door, and behind me in a soft, defeated voice, she says, "Fuck you."
"Right back at you, sweetheart," I mutter.
